The Devil You Know
by Hazgarn
Summary: Second season. Takes off from the end of Tall Tales becoming very AU. Bobby and Sam have a conversation about Dean which leads the brothers down an unusual road...
1. The Devil You Know

If I owned them, I wouldn't be posting this _here_. So let's just get that out of the way. Not to be taken seriously, but kind of a cool idea I thought... It started out in my mind as a comedy, but it didn't end that way. I might continue this later, but it stands alone as-is, I guess. This is my first finished fan piece, and my first Supernatural fic. It fits with the theme of my C2, as well, so if you liked it (or read it and thought you could do a better job), check that out as well. Some really good stories in there.

* * *

"Cute."

"I'm dead serious, Sam."

Sam stared incredulously at the older hunter where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Bobby— No. I mean normally, man, yeah, I'd trust your gut over my own eyes. But this is just..."

"Crazy?" He looked Sam in the eye, his face utterly serious just as he said. He leaned over to the window, twitching a curtain aside to look down at Dean through the hotel window. Just returning from a quick store run, he was carrying a couple of paper bags up from the Impala. Bobby shook his head before letting the curtain fall again. "Ain't the first crazy thing this week."

Sam's mouth hung open for a second, a half smile lingering on his face from the initial amusement of the idea. But the shock and the novelty were wearing off, and the smile went with them. A soft laugh escaped him, but he just stared at the carpet. He ran a hand over his mouth, shaking his head.

"No. No way."

"No way what?" The door slammed as Dean kicked it shut, his hands full. He set the bags down on the table, looking at the other two hunters.

"N-nothing." Sam winced slightly at the hesitance in his voice. He let himself forget Bobby's observations for a moment. Dean didn't seem convinced though. He looked up a Bobby questioningly. A hunter didn't survive long without knowing how to bluff, and Bobby was an old hand. He gave a slight shake of the head, walking over to give Dean a hand with the bags.

"Yeah, okay guys. Whatever." He started to unload the bags' contents onto the table. Bobby reached into one of the bags, pulling out an extra large bag of peanut M&Ms. He held the bag in his hands, raising an eyebrow at Sam. Sam stared again for a moment, shaking his head. Dean, noticing the exchange furrowed his eyebrows looking somewhat confused.

"You guys sure nothing's going on?"

"Huh?" Sam cursed himself internally. "Oh, yeah, nothing. Just..."

"Just what?"

"You've got a bit of a sweet tooth, don't you?"

"What about it? Nothing wrong with a man who likes his candy."

"Huh? No. Sure. You're right."

"I'm right?" Dean frowned, obviously becoming even more confused. And possibly a bit worried. "You feeling okay, Sammy?"

"Huh?" Sam seemed almost startled by the question.

"Well, I'm right...I guess... When was the last time _that_ happened, huh?"

Sam thought fast. "This whole thing with the trickster... We're so hard on each other sometimes. I just thought..."

"Yeah, okay Samantha. Sheesh." Dean grimaced, looking at Bobby. "Next time warn a guy when he's in that kind of mood, okay?"

He took the bag of M&Ms from Bobby, tearing it open with his teeth. He downed a few, crunching loudly. "If you two need me, I'll be out refilling the car."

Their last shot of Dean was just before the door shut, smiling an amused smile, his head shaking.

"You know," Bobby started, "He's got a point. You do tend to—"

Sam looked up at Bobby from where he sat on the edge of the bed, warning coloring his expression. The older man sighed, poking through the bags idly.

"It's just speculation. Even if it was true..."

"But it's not. It can't be." Sam shook his head again. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Doesn't it?" Bobby got a bottle from the bag, opening it as he took a seat in a chair by the table. "I mean, every creature comes from somewhere. Every ghost has it's story— Hell, even shapeshifters start human. Is it really that hard to believe?"

"But tricksters are like demigods, you said."

"Well, if they're like anything... Still. Everything comes from somewhere. Tricksters go way back. If anyone knew how they started out, it's possible that it's been forgotten."

Sam's voice raised slightly. "But this is _Dean_."

Bobby sighed, taking a sip of his beer. "I'm sorry I said anything."

"No," Sam said, standing up from the bed. "You don't get out of it that easy. What— I mean how does something like that even cross your mind?"

Bobby watched Sam pace the room for a bit, looking thoughtfully at the beer in his hand. Finally he answered.

"There's two things in this world I know, Sam. Legends...and cars."

Not for the first time since the topic came up, Sam looked at Bobby as though he was crazy. The older man put up a hand, asking for patience.

"You saw that thing after the accident, Sam. It was totaled."

Sam blinked. "The Impala?"

"You asked me back when Dean was in the hospital, and I told you..." Bobby paused, considering how to phrase it. "There wasn't a force on earth I thought could put that thing back together, Sam. Before they let him out, I did my damnedest, but... It was a miracle he was able to fix it."

"And you mean that literally?"

"Sam, I just try to figure out how things work." The older hunter set down his beer, leaning forward. "But look me in the eye and tell me it didn't feel familiar."

"The trickster?"

"When you two were growing up, he always did start those prank wars of yours..."

"Of course, he's the older brother. He thinks it's his job to be annoying as he is..."

"He's canny in a dangerous way, Sam. He always has been. He picked up the skills to con and deceive so young...he's too clever. Too quick. Lying is second nature to him, and he hides so much of himself... Sometimes the person we see isn't really him. Shapeshifters become what they are through the single-minded desire to be someone else. But if a person could want that badly for people to see only what he wants them to see..."

Sam knew what was coming. He didn't want to hear it. But it wasn't in him to protest. His pacing stopped.

"Now, maybe he isn't. Not _yet_. Maybe not ever. But don't you think, maybe," Bobby continued, "Just _possibly_, that I could be right on this? That it _could_ happen?"

The look on Sam's face disturbed Bobby. The younger man didn't move—he barely even breathed. With a deep, regretful sigh, the old hunter rubbed his eyes, tossing the empty bottle into the trash.

"Just never mind. I'm an old idiot. Maybe the years of what we do are getting to me—"

"No." Sam said. It was hardly a whisper.

"No? What do you mean 'No.'?"

Sam said nothing, just staring down...as though listening. "Bobby... Did you ever hear the car start up?"

A faint creak sounded near the door. Sam rushed toward the doorway, throwing it open wide. He thought for a moment he caught a glimpse of Dean's jacket passing down the stares. On impulse, he followed.

He reached the street just in time to see the Impala pulling away, tires screeching madly. Running a hand through his hair, he tried to think. But his mind felt dead. Bobby finally reached him, looking up questioningly.

"He never left...Bobby, he..."

"He heard everything."


	2. The Devil You Don't

Still not to be taken seriously, but since a lot of people wanted me to continue it, it's obviously not as crazy as I thought. The first chapter is still sort of stands alone since the second part just didn't leave me with the same sense of satisfaction. I've got an idea for a third chapter, too, and some vague ideas for continuing it after that. Thanks for the reviews, because I wouldn't have even bothered if you hadn't. :)

* * *

It was hours later that Sam and Bobby pulled up to the bar. Bobby's busted blue Ford looked out of place on anything but a backroad. It got them where they needed to be, though. Dean hadn't gone far, but it took them a while to catch up with him.

It would have been much sooner, but the directions Dean had left when he finally answered his phone were difficult to go by. The first time Sam called, his brother's phone had rung four, maybe five times before it had obviously been shut off. He tried a few more times after that, but with even less luck. Finally, just when he was about to given up hope—and a little after he'd started having nightmare daydreams involving the specter of Dean's arrest—he managed to get through.

From the slur in his voice, Sam didn't have to guess the condition his brother would be in when they found him. Less certain would be his frame of mind. The bar was exactly the type Sam would have expected Dean to find regardless of the character of the town they settled in. Small and haphazardly located, its seeming irrelevance made for a fairly good camouflage, Sam thought. And a great place to hide without having to admit to being hidden. So while Bobby volunteered to stay outside and search the lot for the Impala, Sam went in hoping to find Dean at least semi-conscious, and he dared pray, willing to talk.

It was close to being nightfall, but not so close apparently that the bartender felt the need to up the lights. As such, the bar was dim inside with just a bit of light filtering in through high, grimy windows. Low lighting was something Sam was more than used to, however, and his eyes adjusted quickly enough to spot Dean at a back table. The older Winchester seemed to be nursing a beer, but the small skyline of brown glass on the table in front of him showed it was just one of many.

Dean wasn't the only person he noticed, though. A woman stood nearby watching his brother. She was dark, with at least some African blood it seemed, though it was hard to gauge. Perhaps in her early thirties, though definitely not much younger and fairly tall, but built sturdily so that her movements indicated an almost peculiar weight. Sam thought she reminded him of somebody, but didn't have time to attempt putting name to face or face to memory. Leaving her apparent vigil, she walked toward the door. She must have noticed his watching Dean, because she stopped to speak with Sam as she passed.

"You that brother he's been waiting on? 'Cause if you are, it ain't a moment too soon." She shrugged herself into a dark coat, glancing up at Sam with a pointed look. "You take care of him, now. Poor idiot's had way too many to drive."

It was a measure of how drunk his brother was that he didn't seem to notice Sam's approach. Or maybe he didn't care. He weighed it for only a moment, but wasn't sure—given the choice—which answer he really would have preferred.

"Dean?"

Dean finished his beer, pulling the next toward him before looking up, up...and up some more into Sam's worried face. He tilted back a little in the booth as his sleepy gaze traveled upward, his expression for a moment seeming almost guilty. He opened his mouth as though about to say something, but paused and appeared to think better of it. Instead he opened the bottle, taking a drink before looking down at the table.

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam slid into the other side of the booth. "Dean, you scared the hell out of us. What were you thinking taking off like that?"

Dean frowned, worrying a chip in the surface of the table with his thumbnail. "I dunno. Don't think I want to know, either. That's what the beer's for."

Sam sat for a quiet moment looking at his brother, expression caught between paradigms of irritation and concern. "It was just stupid speculation, Dean. We weren't serious."

"Serious enough to stop talking when I came in the room, wasn't it?" He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. "I mean, it _sounds_ like a joke, but you two sure as hell didn't discuss it like one."

Looking at him, Sam could almost feel something pushing at his brother's inner walls trying to get free. He was reminded of the one time on the roadside when it did. But unlike then it was squashed back down abruptly, disappearing behind a smile. And if you'd missed the moment, there was no way you'd guess the glint in his eye could have ever possibly been a tearful one.

"God Sammy, what do you want me to say?"

"You don't have to say anything." Sam said, looking into his brother's face. Dean managed to return the contact, though Sam saw the uncertainty there. "It's not the first case that's messed with our heads, and not the first time one of us has done or said something stupid because of it."

"It's not all that stupid, you know. Bobby had a point about ghosts and shifters. Most of what we fight were people once. That kid who drowned in Wisconsin, Angela Mason... Mom! They never asked to be what they were, Sam. And neither did you." His voice fell from the height it had crept to. His smile didn't falter, but he looked away "Only, if Bobby's right, I can't say the same. The wendigo, the woman in white, the shtriga—they screwed _themselves_."

"Dean..."

"Sam." His voice was even quieter now, almost a whisper. Sam leaned forward to hear him better, and he glanced over Sam's shoulder at the rest of the bar, jerking his head. Sam followed his stare to a group of men gathered around the bar's shabby billiard table. "Those jerks playing pool in the corner? I could get a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty dollars out of them if I approached the game right."

"That girl at the bar?" He turned his attention to a young redhead perched upon a barstool. For a beat his eyes matched his smile, regained a hint of their usual warmth. "She's obviously waiting for someone, but with a smile and a few words I bet I could make her forget."

He looked at the bartender.

"Off the top of my head, I can think of, I dunno... A half dozen stories I could tell that might get me a free drink? And if I'm _real_ careful, Sammy, they wouldn't even know they were being played."

"Dean, Dad raised us as cons because the job needed it. I'm not too bad a hand at it myself."

"Yeah, but do you think _you'd_ ever do it just 'cause you could?"

Sam had to admit to himself that he wouldn't, but acknowledging this to Dean wouldn't help any. He'd like to be able to say that Dean wouldn't either, but it wasn't something he could say and honestly be sure of. And since he couldn't say this, he kept his silence.

"The worst part is what I hide from _you_. I hide a lot. I hide thoughts about Dad, and worrying about _you_, and... And I shove it all behind this mask... you know, sometimes it would be so easy to just let that mask become me." He leaned forward, shoulders hunched and looking almost defeated. More than any other detail, it struck Sam as wrong. "Only, now I think I'm finally starting to get what that would _really_ mean."

"I'm scared, Sam. It sounds so stupid, but I am. I'm scared to death that maybe Bobby's right."


	3. BeDeviled

I changed just a few details in the summary, and starting now the rating is jacked up to M. I figured out where I'm going with this, and it's not a very pretty place. Possibly not sexually explicit, but definitely violent, and there's going to be some language on the way. Thanks again for all the reviews. Them is nice.

* * *

With a sigh, he helped Dean into the Impala. The stress, the rush of the conversation, something had taxed his brother's reserves allowing the alcohol to hit him hard. He wasn't quite stumbling drunk, but Dean's step wasn't steady either. Sam didn't doubt he would have been hard pressed to find the Impala in the dark on his own. Dean's nameless observer had been right. Even he didn't protest being placed in the passenger seat. For now. 

"So...tables turned," He asked, head resting heavily against the back of the seat, "You think you could make the same promise?"

"Huh?" Having thought his brother to be practically asleep, Dean's question caught Sam a little off guard.

"You know what I'm talking about. It's my turn to be all drunk and emo... Think it's your turn to—"

The slur in his speech, audible over the phone, had become more pronounced, but that wasn't the only reason Sam had trouble deciphering his brother's meaning. He barely remembered that night at the Pierpont Inn, though the pain of the next morning was emblazoned on his memory with agonizing clarity. That and the pinched look on Dean's face, and the knowledge that he'd added even more weight to the burden his older brother carried.

"_And if I ever turn into something that I'm not—"_ Though knowing how much it hurt him hadn't change Sam's view on the subject. Hadn't caused him to take it back.

"It's not the same thing, Dean." He said, suddenly feeling as tired as his brother looked. "We don't even know for sure this is real. Bobby's evidence was pretty circumstantial. We're probably better off just forgetting."

"Dunno. Maybe. But still, you know? If I do ever..." He trailed off for a moment, brow furrowed under the apparently monumental effort to think clearly. "Maybe don't kill me, but don't let me hurt you either. Okay?"

"You wouldn't Dean."

"Hell, you don't know." He mumbled drowsily, the words of his protest his falling almost below hearing. "Tricky bastard, you know..."

Sam shut the door gently, leaning against the car and giving his mind a chance to rest. Thankfully for him, they'd had most of their gear packed and ready to go before Dean's disappearing act. Before... God, more than anything right now, he wanted to forget the whole mess.

They should have been gone, blown, out of town hours ago while there was still enough light to carry them through to the next town, the next motel, and hopefully a bit of downtime before their next gig. As it was, daylight was a lost cause, but Sam might be able to find a place before the exhaustion of a worried day caught up to that from their hunt and just became too much.

He walked around the front of the car to give his farewells to Bobby. He was leaning against his truck which he'd parked nearby wearing an expression of concern that seemed to be becoming the default when dealing with the Winchester boys. The old hunter was the closest thing they had to family, their only link to a time when it hadn't been just the two of them. When their father had died, Bobby had given them a home, and for them—or to Sam, at least, though he hadn't realized until just that moment—he would always carry that with him. It was something neither of the brothers had wanted to let go of easily. Maybe if they had they would have gone on their way when it was time instead of lingering.

And his ideas and where they had lead... Sam didn't blame Bobby for the mischief they had caused. It just wasn't fair to the man. As much as he wanted to address them again, the topic had become untouchable to him. For a moment, he and Bobby just looked at each other, each knowing what was on the other's mind or the color of it, but neither wanting to say a word. But silences like that have to end in some way.

"So...uh..."

"You boys take care of yourselves. Don't need me comin' to bail your asses out again. Not in the next week, anyway."

Sam smiled weakly, glancing at the Impala. Bobby's eyes followed Sam's, and the older man let out a sigh.

"I didn't mean harm by it..."

Sam just shook his head. Not denial, not dismissal, just... God, he felt tired.

"Doesn't change anything, Bobby. Don't worry about it." Bobby looked at him uncertainly at first. It seemed to fade slowly. Perhaps weighing it against everything else their family had endured. He gave a slight nod.

"Don't let it." He said finally, climbing into his truck. "Don't think I could forgive myself."

Sam watched as Bobby drove off. His gaze returned to his brother, not fast asleep in the car.

_Don't let it._ If nothing else, Sam owed Dean that much. Because his brother had never made that mistake with him. And even if it cost them both their lives, Sam knew, he probably never would.

The road flew by quietly, anonymously, quickly in the dark. So much of the country's roadside had passed him by from the car's windows that he hardly noticed anymore. The world was the same size it had been growing up, but lately he thought he could sometimes feel it shrinking around him. Around both of them. The horizon stretched on as it always had, but there was a lie to it. Sometimes the world was only as large as the Impala and the road under her headlights.

As restricting as that was, it almost seemed to Sam to be all his brother really needed. A highway for his music to echo against, black night before him and swallowing where he'd been...and someone in the other seat to grin at as he went. The idea that he was merely Dean's captive audience brought a brief smile to his face. He looked over into the passenger seat, expecting to see his brother still asleep there.

The sight of his brother's profile against the dim light coming in through the windows was more than a familiar sight to Sam. And so he knew immediately that this wasn't Dean. For a split second the light of a streetlamp revealed the face of the dark woman from the bar. Looking at Sam with eyes almost possession black, she sat in his brother's place in the shotgun seat. No word, no motion, not even the bat of an eye. Only her stare that seemed to look through him, possibly without seeing. And when the light passed, she was gone.

Heart beating wildly, Sam's foot went to the breaks before he had more than a moment to consider. Only half prepared as the wheels screeched, he slammed against the steering column. The horn blared and kept on sounding as if possessed, and he almost missed the echoing thump of Dean hitting the dashboard beside him. His fingers gripped the wheel almost helplessly until the noise finally stopped leaving his ears ringing.

"—the fuck, Sammy?!" For an absurd moment, memory of the apparition fled his mind as he realized he'd forgotten Dean's seatbelt. With a muffled groan, his brother settled himself back into place, and soon fell back to sleep. Though perhaps not peacefully.

Sam pulled the Impala onto the side of the highway and sat for a few minutes. Ghost, vision, dream? He wasn't sure. If he'd been asleep, adrenaline from the sudden stop had taken care of that. The other options, while well within the realm of possibility, were less desirable to consider.

Sam suddenly felt very exposed, and out in the darkness, alone, that was a terrible thing to be. He flicked on the highbeams pulling back onto the road, eye out like a hawk for the next exit.


	4. Devil's Dance

Finally got it done. The update is late, sadly. The switch of viewpoint kind of threw me for a while. I was also blindsided by a half dozen other story random story ideas that kind of usurped control for a while.

Additional Disclaimer: The song Devil's Dance belongs to Metallica. Further, certain opinions expressed by Dean in the ending line of the chapter do not reflect those of the author. Enjoy. (Here's hoping, anyway.)

* * *

Dean didn't wake up the next morning, exactly. More he was yanked brutally out of blissful slumber by what he thought at first had to be some kind of demon hitting him in the head with a hammer. They had demons like that, he knew. Nasty ones who partied with topless goddesses and liked to practice their blast beat on the skulls of the wicked. And once he let himself remain alert—as opposed to fighting consciousness tooth and nail—it came to him that he probably was getting no less than he deserved.

The taste in his mouth was something he decided at once to ignore and he looked around to get his bearings. Blinding light poured through cracked eyelids that seemed unwilling to open all the way. And that was fine with him, for now. From the blurred geometry he could see, he knew he was in a motel room. It had that motel room shape, feel, smell... Yup. And that was a good start, usually. Or a good end, since he'd had some pretty bad ones as well. As long as it wasn't a ditch. Or a park bench. Or a lake...

"So. There was something you said once about a pork sandwich?" The bed lurched, and for a moment Dean thought it was a wave of nausea. But no, he realized after a moment. That voice, the superior tone. That was just Sammy sitting on the bed. On second thought, same thing...

"Dude, shut up." Or at least that's what he tried to say. It came out as sort of an 'Ugh.' noise. An articulate groan more than any kind of verbal response. He curled away from the weight on the bed. Oh, yeah. That special way his hair hurt? That was definitely self-inflicted.

Eventually, Dean forced himself to leave the bed and make an attempt at redeeming himself. Twenty minutes in the hottest shower he could manage helped to reduce the pain in most of his body, though his head still throbbed dully. Looking in the mirror it wasn't difficult to discover why. A dark strip of a bruise had formed across his forehead, at least an inch wide. Confused, Dean stuck his head out the bathroom door.

"Dude, Sammy, did you hit me?"

Sam was sitting on his bed with his laptop doing Sam things. He looked up, his eyebrows knit for a second in that puzzled way of his. Seeing the bruise, his sympathetic wince spoke volumes about his guilt.

"No, when I was driving last night—" He stopped suddenly, getting that scared look animals do when they see the car coming. His mouth worked silently for a bit. "Er... Yeah. I hit you."

"Seriously, Sam, you _better_ not have wrecked my car!"

"No, it's...fine." Sam's mouth pulled as he stifled a grin. Dean found himself almost wanting to punch him for that. He dismissed it reluctantly, blaming it on the pain in his skull. "The car's fine."

"But, what? I hear a 'but' coming."

"I saw something last night and I had to stop."

"Really fucking fast to give me a knock like this." He mumbled, returning to the mirror when something in Sam's words halted him. "Saw something? What like a vision?"

"No."

"Well, then...?"

"Do you remember seeing a woman at the bar?"

"I see lots of women in bars." He returned, grinning. Sam gave him a disgusted look, rolling his eyes. He'd apparently expected a comment of that character, and so plowed on through to the point in typical Sammy fashion.

"Last night, about the time I came in, there was a woman. I think she was watching you."

"Well, who wouldn't, Sammy?" He'd fallen into the same evasive habit as always, he realized. And before he'd even remembered why he didn't want to talk about this...

"She kind of looked like Cassie."

"Yeah." He acknowledged mildly, crossing the room to begin pawing through his duffle bag for his clothes. He kept his face was mostly impassive, but his voice dipped low "I remember her."

"What did you two talk about?"

He'd thought it really _was_ Cassie for a while. She'd caught him staring. "We didn't talk."

"Then how did she know you were waiting for me?"

"Maybe she heard me talking on the phone?" Jesus, Sam, get to the point. "What does this have to do with why my head feels like its splitting open?"

"Actually, I think the _beer_ had a lot to do with—"

"Just answer the question, smart ass."

"I saw her while driving last night. In the car."

"Following us?"

"As in I saw her _in_ the car. For a second she was sitting in the passenger seat while you were knocked out."

Damn it. Nothing was ever simple. "Think we have something following us?

"Maybe. Could be I was just tired last night." Dean made a skeptical noise, turning back toward the bathroom to dress. "We can't afford to pick up another hunt so close to the last. Not with the Feds out looking for us. We can check from the road. If it's a ghost, it might have records. A death on the highway near here, something. If we find anything legit we can swing back."

Dean shook his head, thinking over his brother's words. He hated leaving something like this alone, but Sam's right. The idea of turning tail in the face of anything resembling a hunt seriously blows, but they've got more human threats to worry about now. And damned if those weren't the more serious ones in their own way.

"Alright. We pass this one. But Sam?" His brother turned to look as Dean snatched the keys off the table with a grin. "You don't drive."

They checked out some time after ten, stopping an hour later at the same nameless service station they do in every town. Sam went in to pay for gas and something vaguely imitating breakfast, and Dean was left wishing—not for the first time—that he really had filled the tank the day before. Now the ruse was costing them time in addition to the security it already had.

He wished he knew why he'd listened in the first place. The knowledge that Sam and Bobby had some secret that they weren't sharing had burned him, like a fever in his brain. It had been an almost instinctual reaction to try and find out what.

He'd come to trust his gut pretty well. It had saved his ass more times than he could count when honestly nothing else could have gotten him out of it. He'd never had cause to doubt. And he regretted that most of all. He'd never questioned his ability against the creatures, the monsters...it all came so naturally. But what if it wasn't natural? Maybe it takes one to know one. The idea scared the hell out of him.

And Dean didn't know why he'd run. Running implied guilt.

It was the talk of familiarity that had scared him the most. He'd felt it. The more time they had spent investigating Crawford Hall, the stronger it had become. It began with certainty. Even with evidence to the contrary—or lack of evidence—he'd known they were dealing with something up their alley. He'd assumed it was his gut, just like with that zombie chick. There was an almost tangible feeling of its presence. Patterns where there shouldn't have been patterns. And once they'd known for sure what they were dealing with, it was in less than an eye blink that he knew who. Like recognition.

And the guilty fact was that, in spite of its crimes, God help him but he'd almost felt bad killing the thing. He'd hesitated, and he never did that. Talked with the thing. He never did _that_ either. That glint in the creature's eye, the smile on its face. What if that had been recognition, too?

"Hurry the hell up, Sammy." Sitting in the car alone, his impatient breath was too loud even over the car's idling engine. Between that and the noise of his own thoughts, Dean couldn't hear the silence he would much prefer to have echoing through his ears in this particular moment.

Turning on the radio didn't help. As the dying strains of the previous track faded, he heard the beginning. Devil's Dance. He hated this song. Ever since dad's bombshell about Sam. It made him dwell once or twice on the idea of what Sam could become. In fact, if asked, he would have been sure he'd thrown the damned cassette out. But it was playing now. Only now he was forced to think of _himself_ when he was trying as hard as he ever had not to think.

"_I feel you too_

_Feel those things you do_

_In your eyes I see a fire that burns_

_To free the you_

_That's wanting through_"

The more he looked at it, the more it seemed it was easier for him to lie than to tell the truth these days. Especially the lies he told Sam. The lies he told Sam for his own good. About Susan Thompson and her daughter. He'd gambled with both their lives, making sure he was there just late enough for Sam to save them both. Save the day, because on that hunt he'd needed it so fucking badly.

And then... Even wagering those lives didn't compare to _that_ night.

This he solidly refused to think about. His hands tightened around the wheel, squeezing the blood from his knuckles. Teeth clenched, for a moment he felt like his head was going to explode. The bruise on his forehead throbbed. Intensely angry, violent thoughts matching the tempo of the music...he wanted more than anything to tear the damned thing out.

God, he just wanted it to _stop_.

The cassette screeched in the deck, ejecting violently from the radio against the back of the seat to rest in a pile of unraveled tape. The interior of the car was filled with the soft hiss of dead air then quiet as the knob turned, shutting off. And this silence was complete. Dean didn't dare breathe.

He nearly jumped when Sam opened the door, and Dean chucked the damned thing, sending the chewed tape sailing past his brother's head.

"The deck ate it." He gave in answer to Sam's startled and questioning look. He even managed a casual shrug. "ReLoad sucked anyway."

When the majority of your life is spent confined within a narrow space with another human being, it becomes impossible for certain things to escape notice. Though it was difficult for even Sam to read Dean's moods with certainty most of the time, there were signs, nonetheless, that would occasionally give a hint into what was going on inside his brother's stubborn block head. It wasn't in itself unusual for Dean to lapse into a guarded silence, but without his music to noisily fill the space between them bright warning lights were set off in the back of Sam's head. The kind that usually came with sirens. Something had happened, something Sam had missed though he couldn't tell where it had been missed or when. And this ugly silence, a guilty silence, had fallen between them that would follow them into the next night.

And that night it was Dean who had nightmares.


End file.
